


Bound Together

by Grand_Duchess_Mars



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Angst Scattered Throughout, F/F, Femslash February 2019, Implied Jodariel/Pamitha, Rated T for Trying my Patience with This Slow Burn, Weaves Around Canon Then Expands Beyond it, but it gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 20:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17669201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grand_Duchess_Mars/pseuds/Grand_Duchess_Mars
Summary: Sometimes mercy and forgiveness are forged in the bonds you make with those you love.A few glimpses of the relationship between Sandra and her lovely Reader over the years.





	Bound Together

            One warm, arid morning in the Downside Prairie, you join Jodariel to forage some goods from the Hollowroot. After flying for your first time from mount Alodiel, you’re anxious to do some walking on solid ground. The Captain seems to share your feelings, saying less than usual on the trip, committing to the search slowly as to not have to return too quickly. She largely leaves you alone, save for when you need her help cutting through some particularly thick brush.

            You hardly blame her. You do both have a lot on your mind.

            While it’s never quiet in the Blackwagon, you have recently been missing a certain amount of charm from traveling in it. This is due to the fact that several weeks ago you ascended Hedwyn back to the Commonwealth. Even in the short time that you knew him, you could tell that he was the soul of the group, always steering them in the right direction, never faltering from the path. You miss some nights being able to turn to him for advice on what you should do. You especially miss his cooking; he was something of a savant in that regard.

            But you know that sending him on was the right thing to do. He’d been separated from someone he loved. You would not stand between that.

            A few hours later you return to the Blackwagon with your bounty. You mostly found small trinkets that could be sold to Ron at the slugmarket, which you do in trade for several talisman upgrades, while Jodariel found several chunks of game for your meals. While they’ll never taste the same, you know that you’ll be well fed in the end.

            By mid day you have reached the Ridge of Gol, where you first faced the Accusers, and now face the Essence. You all spend your time setting up camp and planning strategy for the coming Rite. Pamitha jumps from person to person, needing to distract herself from her worries about seeing her sister again. The only two people she doesn’t talk to are you and Jodariel. You get why she doesn’t speak to the Captain, but at the very least you could lend her your ear.

            Perhaps she’s catching on to your growing ability to see the thoughts in her head.

            You rub your neck, massaging the reminder that you were not cast down alone anxiously. You feel like you’re breaching your new family’s privacy every time you catch a glimpse of their inner monologue. You rarely do it intentionally, but when the thoughts are as strong as Pamitha’s, you can hardly help yourself.

            You hope she doesn’t think less of you for your condition.

            As you’re walking through the central chamber of the Blackwagon, a shimmer next to the Book of Rites grabs your attention. You see it emanate from the beyonder crystal, the dark green storm clouds within churning ever on. It seems Sandra wishes to speak to you. The day’s chores dealt with, you rap the prison with your knuckles and take a step back. A moment later, the wraith’s form flashes into view.

            “Reader,” she greets, “we are back at the Ridge of Gol, are we not? I can sense the decayed, hulking mass of Gandroth from here.”

            You do not know why she felt the need to ask if she could sense where you were. You guess that it helps fill the loneliness that cages her soul.

            “Would you be so kind as to bring me to the top of his skull? I am quite interested to see if I can feel the warmth of the sun from up there.”

            You take a moment to consider her request. You do not have anything better to do while you wait for the Rites to begin, so you suppose you could do this. However, you do not have the slightest idea how you would make it up there.

            You rummage through the Blackwagon and find a grappling hook amongst Jodariel’s things. Assuming this would get the job done, you pick up the beyonder crystal and head out the door.

            The Captain immediately blocks your path and gives you a stern look.

            “What exactly are you planning to do with that?” She demands with unnerving calm. Unable to resist her gaze, you point sheepishly at the head of the giant that looms above you. Her brows furrow. “Can you even climb that distance?”

            You mull it over for a few seconds and give her an affirmative nod. You had to do a lot to escape torchbearers who would discover you scavenging for books in your youth. While you’ve never had to climb this great a distance, you’re at least somewhat confidant you can manage it.

            The Captain’s insightful glare lingers for a moment before relaxing. She sighs with exhaustion and pushes past you. A moment later, she returns with an oversized crossbow. She then yanks the grappling hook from your hand and sets it into the weapon.

            “Let’s get this over with, then.”

            You follow her out onto the sand, holding the beyonder crystal close under your cloak. Pamitha and Rukey, who are seated on a nearby log, give you a curious glance as you pass by. Jodariel aims down the length of the crossbow and scans the skull for the right angle to shoot from.

            After a time, she grunts in frustration. You get the feeling she’s having a hard time finding her mark with the afternoon sun in her eyes.

            “Harp,” she calls out towards Pamitha. The glitzy, crimson winged woman skips over to you.

            “How might I be of service, darling?” She asks. There’s a hint of ire to her tone that shows her displeasure for the Captain’s choice of nickname.

            “I need you to spot for me so I can set up a climbing line to reach the top,” the Captain gestures without looking at Pamitha.

            “Already trust me with your life, do you?” The harp snickers. “And here I thought I’d have to work at it to thaw your icy heart.”

            Jodariel slowly turns her head to give Pamitha an unamused glare. She then jabs her thumb at you. “I’m trusting you with hers.”

            Pamitha’s eyes widen in surprise and she looks down at you. “Well, then,” she grins slyly. “Be right back.

            The harp takes a running leap and soars into the sky, flapping her wings furiously to reach the top. She does a couple circles around the skull before swooping back down, skidding to a stop in front of you dramatically. Rukey claps and whistles approvingly from the log and bounds over to the three of you.

            Pamitha steps behind the Captain and peers over her shoulder. She wiggles her eyebrow at her, presumably for being allowed to get so close to her. Jodariel motions for her to get on with it.

            If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear that the Captain was blushing.

            The harp wraps one wing around Jodariel’s back to steady her. With the other, she adjusts her aim slightly up and to the right. “That should do it,” she declares. She then carefully backs away, anticipating the Captain’s coming wrath.

            If she had any, she never set it loose.

            She pulls the trigger of the crossbow and the grappling hook is sent sailing through the sky with an aggressive _thwoomf._ You all take a few steps back as the attached rope trails wildly after it, wishing not to get hit by, or worse, tangled in it. A few seconds later the hook impacts with the skull and the rope goes slack. Thankfully, there is more than enough on the line to climb all the way to the top.

            “Excellent shot,” Rukey commends. “You two make quite the pair, you know.”

            “I did it for her,” they both say at the same time, pointing at you. They stare at each other in heated silence for a moment. You begin to wonder if they would even notice if you slipped past them and started climbing. Then Pamitha breaks character and flashes the Captain a genuine smile. Jodariel doesn’t say a word and walks back inside the Blackwagon.

            “I tried,” Rukey relents.

            “You’re going to want to remove that,” Pamitha indicates by brushing aside a flap of your cloak with her wing. You undo the clasp of the garment and let it fall to the ground, your scarlet curls finally free to sway in the wind, were there any wind to sway in. The harp fixates on the object in your grasp. “Do you intend to climb one handed, then? I’m sure I speak for all of us, darling, when I say we’d prefer not to see your body splattered against the rocks.”

            “Oh, I can help with that!” The cur exclaims. He rushes off to the Blackwagon with a bound in his step. He reemerges with a dark, leather satchel, which drags in the sand behind him on approach. “I purchased this from Ron back down the road. It’s a little too big, and too rustic, for my tastes, but I’m sure you could fit that thing in there.”

            Gracious for the gift, you take the satchel from him and slip it over your shoulder. Surprisingly, the strap is too long even for you, perhaps designed for someone as large as Jodariel. Fortunately, it is adjustable, and you tighten it to a length that you can use.

            You set the beyonder crystal into the satchel and latch its flap shut. You then walk over to the rope and give it a few tugs. When it doesn’t come loose, you set your mind to the task of reaching the top.

            “I’ll be watching your ascent,” Pamitha informs. “While I could not fly you to the top, I am more than capable of stopping you from succumbing to a fall.” She grins. “Good luck, darling.”

            “For the record,” Rukey whines, “this is a new kind of crazy. I believe in you, but this better not be the start of something.”

            You mentally thank them for their concern and begin your ascent. With nothing to give you footing, the climb is a sheer test of upper body strength. About half way up you start wishing that you’d cut your hair before attempting this. You are thoroughly damp with sweat and your curls keep getting in your eyes. You steady your thoughts on the reason why you’re doing this. You climb not for yourself, but for the wish of someone without the means to climb. In a way, it’s just like the Rites. Only you can raise your family up and return them to the Commonwealth.

            Except in that, you won’t be joining them at the top.

            You shake the thought clear and double time it, using up all the stamina you have. True to her word, Pamitha keeps pace with you the whole way, staying close enough to be able to dive in quickly, but not so close that the flapping of her wings interferes with the climb. It gets no easier when you get near enough to the skull that you have footing to brace yourself with. Still you press on and when you finally climb over the edge, you sprawl out, exhausted, but victorious.

            “Darling, that was brilliant,” Pamitha cheers, perching beside you.

            You give her a weary thumbs-up, breathing so heavily you’re not entirely sure what she just said. She gives you a couple minutes to recover and then helps you sit up. You pull your canteen off your belt and take a hearty swig of luke-warm water, which refreshes you like no other. The harp giggles and wipes your chin as you spill a bit.

            “Just wiggle the rope a couple times when you’re ready to come down. The descent will be no easier, so I’d still like to keep an eye on you.”

            You wave her off and she flashes you another smile before diving off the cliff. You made it. What was it you were going to do again?

            Ah, right. Sandra.

            You remove the beyonder crystal from the satchel and gently pat it twice. You then take off the satchel and set the crystal on top of it, like it was a pillow for a royal jewel. Moments later Sandra’s form coalesces in a swirling of green fog.

            “You know,” she begins with a laugh, “I did not actually expect you to bring me up here.”

            You hardly have the energy to scowl in annoyance at her, so instead you flop onto your back and bask in the afternoon sun.

            “That fool of a cur was right,” she hums, sitting beside you. “What you just did was insane. I do not think in all my time as an assassin I did something so daring, save for slaying the Emperor. The Scribes can all burn for all I care, but I think Gol would be proud of you. Had they not stolen my sight, I might’ve been beholden to your efforts. Suffice to say, I’m impressed, my lovely Reader.”

            You do not think your arms share her praise. It’s going to be several hours before you can attempt the climb back down. You hope you’re not late for the start of the Rite.

            Perhaps the Archjustice will allow you to work from here. It’s a bit small from where you are, but you can still see the field from atop the skull.

            “Well, time to see if I have earned any freedom during my imprisonment.” Sandra eases onto her back. “Let us enjoy the view, mm?”

            In your exhaustion you’d completely forgotten to take in the sights. You look around and are a little awed by what lies before you. From this point, you can see nearly all of the Downside Prairie, from the rocky ruins you were pulled from, to the festering Blooming Pool and the Hollowroot. Additionally, you can see the beginnings of the vast desert that is the Jomuer Valley, its pale, bug-like hovels a speck in the distance.

            You haven’t had much time on your journey for moments like these. Somehow, if only for a moment, you forget all the pain that the exiles suffer in this place, and see how truly gorgeous it can be. You wonder that, if the plan to overthrow the Commonwealth succeeds, an effort can be made to make the Downside more hospitable for those who get left behind.

            Sandra turns over to lie on her side. Then she flips over on to the other one. She does this several more times before sitting up with a huff. You begin to worry as she rises to her feet and paces back and forth across the skull. And then she teeters over and falls onto her stomach. She dissipates into a fine mist on impact, alarming you to the point of sitting up. You are relieved when a minute later she reforms at your side, lying on her back once more.

            She seems annoyed.

            “Mmf, this isn’t working,” Sandra groans, spreading her limbs out in defeat. “Mayhaps if you flung me into the sun I’d feel the heat. But the Scribes? No, they could never grant me mercy. Not even for something so simple as this.”

            She turns onto her side to face you, despite not being able to see you. The smirk she wears informs you that she’s come up with a ridiculously devious idea. “If we commissioned that bog-hag Bertrude to construct a catapult, do you think she’d agree?”

            You shrug unknowingly. She’d hardly said a word in the one interaction you’d had with her. While the modifications she made to the Blackwagon border on the miraculous, you have no basis to say if she could build something capable of breaching the sky.

            Though you admit it would be hilariously awe-inspiring to see such a thing accomplished.

            “Not much of one for conversation, are you.” She sighs. “Alas, I’d only asked you to bring me up here, not to entertain me. This will have to be enough.”

            You blink twice and sit upright, staring down at the apparition of the assassin at your side. You had not realized that she’d wanted anything more than your presence in asking you here. You feel a bit thick-headed; were Pamitha or Rukey ever to find out, you’re sure they’d call you such.

            But there is a reason you have yet to open your mouth.

            “Is something wrong?”

            How best to explain this…

            You extend your hand towards her briefly before reconsidering and placing it on the beyonder crystal. You focus on it for a moment like you have before when you’ve needed to speak to her directly in her realm. A chill creeps down your spine as your sense of self warps and reconfigures into something more. When you open your eyes, you’re on the practice field, a more corporeal Sandra sitting at your side.

            Not knowing exactly how this will work, you reach to take her hand. Sure enough, she is significantly closer to “real” in the prison, and you find purchase. She inhales sharply from the touch and tries to pull away. You place your other hand around hers, willing her to stay calm. Reluctantly, she accepts this, motioning for you to do what you will.

            You then pull down the collar of your tunic and place her open palm around your neck.

            “Reader, what are you—” Her brows furrow as she feels what you mean to show her. Her finger is cold, yet gentle as it runs over the scar on your neck, tracing the curve to the point of impact in the center of your collar. “This hasn’t been healed for long,” she growls. “What kind of rabid animal marred you like this?”

            It was no animal that took your voice. It was but a terrified man who stumbled drunk into your home by accident. He saw you reading through a tome you’d recently salvaged and branded you a heretic. The ensuing struggle spilled out into the street for all to see. Growing up alone taught you to look after yourself, but when he drew a knife, the battle was lost.

            A strange sort of luck revealed itself in your neighbor, who’d witnessed the exchange. The man was arrested and you were taken to a doctor to be healed. You survived the night, but never fully recovered the ability to speak. Later you learned that the man had been exiled for his actions. In the moment, you remember believing that he’d gotten off easy, but now that you’ve been exiled yourself, you know that’s not the case.

            And then they came for you. The same neighbor who’d saved your life found that knowledge of your “sin” was too heavy a burden to weigh on their conscience. They waited just long enough to ensure that your wound wouldn’t reopen easily before corroborating the ravings of the man who’d harmed you. Without any explanation, you were brought to trial, given your cloak, and booted from the Commonwealth. A week later, you were on the brink of death by starvation and dehydration in the desert.

            It’s fortunate that Volfred knew where to send Hedwyn and the others to find you.

            Sandra’s fingers are slow to leave your neck as she retracts her hand, tips dragging across every inch of exposed skin along the way. She remains silent for a moment, her lips contorted into a frown. You feel drawn in by the glint of the green firelight that wisps from her form, refracting off the diamond patterning under her eyes. It had not occurred to you just how much they looked like tears… or blood.

            They're kind of beautiful, in a sad way.

            You tug your collar back up and turn your gaze away, heat filling your cheeks. Now is not the time to be thinking of such things. You have people to save.

            “Well,” the wraith shrugs, lying back down, “at least I can read your thoughts in here. I’ll just have to imagine the loveliness of your voice accompanying the words you weave.”

            You feel mortified knowing that she’d just heard what you were thinking. Even more so by the fact that she hasn’t reacted to it. A person must learn a modicum of restraint after nearly a millennium of isolation.

            Your sense of self flips again as the practice arena dissipates, making way for the view of the dunes surrounding the Ridge of Gol. Yet even though you’ve been removed from her world, Sandra still lies beside you, her hands behind her head. Eventually you settle your nerves and join her. You contemplate the setting sun in silence, content that the other is there beside you. Just before night has fallen, you climb back down and return to your new family to prepare for the coming Rite.

            “Thank you for taking me there,” Sandra’s voice echoes in your mind as you set the beyonder crystal back on the shelf. “As fruitless an endeavor as that was, we should do that again some time.”

            You agree with her assessment. You wish all of your “failures” could be as relaxing a time as this was. Perhaps you’ll sew a pocket for the crystal into your cloak so you can carry her around and keep your hands free.

            “A lovely idea from a lovely Reader,” she smirks. “You’ll be my own personal Blackwagon. I hope you are prepared to brave the most treacherous of depths to follow my whim where it wishes to go.”

            You wave off her insinuation with a smile and swing your cloak back over your shoulders. Secretly, you wonder if you would truly mind traveling with her. She has done a lot for you already, despite having no promises for the release she seeks. You pause to ponder about how similar your fates are. Neither of you will escape the torment you’ve been cast into. Would it be so bad to find another way to live together?

            You shake those thoughts from your head and pick up the Book of Rites. You have a task to complete. You will not let any distractions cause you to fail your friends.

            But perhaps you’ll invite them in later, when there’s less to worry about.

            You step out the door to await the brightening of the stars.

* * *

             The eve following the night of the fourth Liberation Rite brings with it an ill omen. The stars are already present in the sky, bidding you to follow them to glory, yet their light is dimmer than before. Anxious to be on their way, your new family asks you to choose a path, knowing that the success of the plan, and your fellows’ freedom, is now a race against the clock. Your mind falls upon Ores and the Sea of Solis, where Udmildhe makes ready to put her schemes into motion, all for the favor of Yslach, Astral-Born. Come dawn, you take off in the Blackwagon and make the long journey south.

            The others aren’t in the mood for conversation, so you decide to spend what time you have in study. You settle down in the far corner of the main room, flopping the Book of Rites in your lap. You flip it open to the page you left off on last and focus on the mysterious intent behind the words that were written oh so long ago. You’re three pages in when you feel yourself begin to drift off, the exhaustion of the last several weeks taking its toll. The sound of an unfamiliar tune being hummed by a voice you’ve grown accustomed to hearing on lonesome nights washes over you. Your head droops as you struggle to keep awake, but the urge to fall away wins out as your vision cuts to black.

            It takes a moment to get your bearings in this void, but once you realize you’re standing on solid ground, any burgeoning panic attempting to seize your heart fades. There’s no sound as you walk. It’s strangely peaceful here. You feel no obligation to the fates thrust upon you by the Commonwealth and their Scribes in this space. No intrusive thoughts born of worry arrive to claim your mind. It’s a welcome change of pace, though it does occur to you that you may just be dying again, as you were set on doing before Hedwyn showed you kindness.

            The humming that brought you here slithers into your ear once more. You follow it a ways before you catch a glimpse of a faint green light in the distance. The song and the light gradually cascade in tandem as you near it, a comforting warmth weaving between sensations with a harmony that may even give the ever distant Celeste pause. Though perhaps that’s your personal bias speaking.

            You weren’t sure you had one, until now.

            You reach a point where the tune has grown to swarm around you.  The emerald light blazes with the radiance of a star, yet the heat burns no hotter than it did when you first felt it in your cheeks. As soon as you reach for it, however, it snuffs out with a gasp like the sound of crashing water, and you are left with a suddenly unwelcoming void.

             “Do you mean to drool when you sleep?”

            You jolt awake and discover yourself sprawled across the floor of the wagon’s inner chamber. You push yourself up, an ache jabbing at your temples as you realize you’d been using the Book as a pillow. You look around for the source of the voice that stirred you, finding no one other than the drive imps, who have nestled in to protect themselves from a cold wind that had blown in from outside. The voices of Volfred and Bertrude twined in conversation echo from an adjacent room, but you hear not the one you’re searching for. There’s also Tariq, who’s tinkering away on his lute while leaning against his usual spot on the wall, but it wasn’t him who spoke to you either.

            You feel the Blackwagon gently rock back and forth underfoot, signaling to you that your party has made it to the sea. You’re nearing your destination.

            The time to spend on your vocations lost, you decide it best to get some fresh air. You pick up the Book of Rites and set it back on its stand. You pause a moment to look at the picture of Rukey and his mother on the shelf above. Just as it was when you sent Hedwyn, Pamitha, and Ti’zo on, it saddened you to let the rambunctious cur go. Nonetheless you knew it was the right thing to do. When you have a family worth keeping, you want to do everything in your power to see them safe.

            If only you could do so without setting them loose from yours.

            Your gaze flicks down to the beyonder crystal in its resting spot next to the Book, its ever present, dim, yet sparkly glow seemingly inviting you in, while the swirling, dark green storm demands that you keep out. You’re not sure which aspect of the cage is intended by the design of the Scribes or by Sandra’s whims. You cannot help but smirk at its temperament. You decide to bring it with you, slipping the crystal into one of your cloak’s inner pockets on your way outside.

            A chill buffets against you as you step through the Blackwagon’s port-side door. It seems that the tropical heat of the Sea of Solis has been dampened somewhat by the darkening of the stars. You stretch for a moment before pulling your cloak a little tighter around yourself.

            The sound of laughter from the other side of the wagon catches your attention. Rather than cut right back through the core of your traveling home, you decide to walk around the edge, making good use of the extended walkways the vehicle has when in ship mode.

            You find Jodariel at the Bow leaning over the banister. She gives you a curt nod as you pass but otherwise remains silent, keeping an ever present watch on their surroundings. The trio of Pamitha’s feathers she keeps tucked behind her ear bristle as a frigid breeze blows past them. You’re not quite sure how she can stand the cold without the cloak she usually wears, but you suppose there must be a few perks to becoming a demon. You know better than to give credence to such thoughts, however, given the Captain’s disdain for her disposition.

            You smile as you come upon the source of the laughter on the starboard side. You see Shae hollering wildly, nearly falling over the edge in her excitement. You have little time to notice that the moon-touched girl is wearing Jodariel’s cloak as you stride up behind her and grab her by her collar to keep her from tumbling into the deep. She flashes you a smile and wriggles out of your grasp, resuming her demeanor. You soon realize what the fuss is about when you see Sir Gilman speeding alongside the Blackwagon in the water. You glean from their rapport that the wyrm knight is racing against the wagon’s pace, a race that he is losing handily, but is determined to see through to the end.

            You then realize that Shae is cheering not for Gilman, but for the wagon himself, passionately encouraging her little brother to show the knight how it’s done.

            A series of ordered chirps ring out above you and you glance up to see a number of drive imps fixated on the competition from their perch on the edge of the roof. You notice the Blackwagon begin to slow down for a moment, giving Gilman a chance to catch up—a chance he takes in stride. As if gifted a sudden burst of inspiration by the Scribes themselves, Gilman closes the gap, making it so far as half way up the wagon’s length. However, after another, devious chirp from the drive imps, the wagon resumes its prior speed and the knight starts lagging behind once more.

            You chuckle noiselessly and bid them both good luck with a nod and a smile. You also direct that smile towards the bow, where you see Jodariel watching them with her arms crossed. She cares about her new sister so much more than she lets on.

            She returns it with a glare that commands you to speak not a word of this. Knowing better than to get on the Captain’s bad side, you give her a shrug, turn on your heel, and make for the stern.

            You gaze at your surroundings for a moment, casually leaning over the banister. Even when blanketed with an overcast sky, the Sea of Solis has an enchanting beauty to it. You know that it would be a more dangerous trip had Sir Gilman not rendered a portion of the Deathless Tempest mute, but with it out of the way, the place seems rather welcoming. Perhaps it’s the way the sun glints off of the crystalline, coral-like structures on the islands, painting their orange beaches with turquoise, violet, and magenta hues. Or maybe it’s the trees that remind you of the age old children’s book you learned to read from. Either way, you think you wouldn’t mind if you had to live here for the rest of your life.

            Not that you have a choice in the matter. You’re the one person who will never see Volfred’s utopia come to pass. Such brutal irony that the Scribes would deem you to be the one person capable of guiding the Nightwings to freedom, yet never able to claim it yourself. The Archjustice must spend all of his free time cackling at your expense.

            You suddenly feel claustrophobic even in the open air. You make a mental note to ask Bertrude about the possibility of adding room to poke your feet through the banisters. You would quite like to wash the grime between your toes away in the sea and feel the wake churn behind the wagon. You figure it would be comforting, despite being something you’ve never had the privilege to do.

            It would certainly be better than spending your time thinking about the decisions you must make these coming days. You know now that not everyone is going to make it home, not just yourself. Both Volfred and Bertrude have already voiced their indifference as to whether they ascend to the Commonwealth or not, making the choice of who gets their turn simple. Unfortunately that does little keep the worries you have about failing your family at bay.

            While you’ve succeeded at every Liberation Rite presented to you thus far, you have always had to work for each victory. You can feel the group’s hope slowly draining away—not just yours, but the other triumvirates’ as well. The fading of the stars seems to be on everyone’s minds. Not to mention the appearance of Oralech, who seems determined to meddle in the proceedings of the Rites. It truly feels like all that the exiles have worked towards is slipping out of their grasp. The fortunate few may ascend to see Volfred’s plan come to fruition, but the rest… they’ll simply die as the last exiles to ever live.

            Would the “fortunate few” even find happiness in the Commonwealth, overturned or not? You sent Hedwyn and Rukey on because they had people they loved to return to, so they would do fine. You gave Ti’zo the chance to see something new—he could always come back if he so wished. Pamitha you returned as a form of closure for her. She needed to forgive herself and start anew.

            But the others…

            You’ve heard bits and pieces of what happened to Shae in her conversations with the Blackwagon. She was cast out simply for existing. Her fascination with the Scribes—possibly born from her ability to, at least partially, commune with them—is nothing unusual for the Commonwealth. Given the existence of the Rites, they certainly hold them in god-like esteem. But speak of them too often you become a nuisance worth getting rid of. Perhaps her words reminded the Commonwealth’s people of their guilt over the fate of the exiles and they wanted no part of it. And yet you’ve seen her thrive in the company of your shared family. Sending them on while keeping her here might deprive her of the only acceptance she’s ever known.

            Sir Gilman’s exile was self-imposed, so you suppose he could go back without issue. Yet while he may have changed, the Commonwealth has not. His reasons for leaving would remain valid. Honor is earned through action, not through living somewhere.

            Then there’s what happened to Jodariel. You feel the need to grip something as to prevent yourself from seething through your teeth, so you reach into your cloak and pull out the beyonder crystal. Exiled for saving the lives of children. Why would she ever want to return to that? What if she’s made to commit more atrocities in the Commonwealth’s name? She wouldn’t want that. And yet, she’s been down here longer than any of you—longer even than Volfred—something that has taken both a mental and physical toll on her. If she was sent back, that all might fade away. She might feel “normal” again.

            Then are the freedoms you may yet deny.

            You do not think you could let Lendel or Manley through, as while they’re both clearly desperate to return, they both seek only to further the Commonwealth’s corruption. Udmildhe seeks the destruction of all things, so she could not be sent, but perhaps Tamitha could be swayed to peace since Pamitha has already been returned home. Then there’s Sir Deluge, who is an incompetent, yet is that enough to warrant continued seclusion from his homeland?

            On the flip side, there’s Ignarius, who seems alright, if aggressively flirtatious. Getting on a politician’s bad side is not nearly enough excuse to warrant permanent exile. Barker seems to thrive on the chaos of the Downside. He may find the Commonwealth stifling, though as an anarchist, he could be useful in that regard. Poor Dalbert simply wants his son to live a free life. Given his age, it might be his last wish. It seems wrong to deny him of it.

            And then there’s Oralech. What gives you the right to refuse him what he’s already earned a second time?

            What gives you the right to make any of these decisions?

            “Feeling seasick, Reader?”

            Your eyes snap open as you hear the voice call to you again. You look around to find its source, but much like before, you do not see anything. However, when you return your eyes to gaze upon the water, you see that there is a second, whispy-green reflection joining your own. You feel foolish having not recognized her until now.

            “Don’t take it too hard,” Sandra laughs, “I’ve had nearly 838 years to adjust to existing without sight. My sisters would be more disappointed with me than they already are if I hadn’t. But I’ll admit, I’m a little hurt that it took you so long. I thought we’d begun to bond.”

            You exhale and relax your grip on the beyonder crystal. You’re thankful to have her smarm around to detract from your thoughts, as self-depreciating as it may be.

            “Try not to drop our prison as you read into my words. I’ve already been through suffocating at the bottom of a sea before and I would rather not go through that again.”

            Surprised she can hear your thoughts outside of her prison, you follow her advice, and slip the crystal back into your cloak pocket.

            “Did you forget I could reach back through our connection?” She frowns, crossing her arms. “As lovely as you are, you certainly are lacking for knowledge of your abilities, aren’t you.”

            You explain that you’ve learned about yourself on the go. No one told you exactly what you were before you were cast down. You’ve always been expected to know, though you hardly know why, as the very knowledge of yourself is outlawed.

            Sandra shakes her head. “Pitiful. It’s a wonder that you picked up on the Rites as fast as you did without that knowledge.”

            You feel unusually unappreciative of her trademark snark. You give her an annoyed shrug and turn your gaze away from her reflection.

            “Relax, I meant nothing by it. What clouds your mind that makes you so easy to provoke?”

            You figure that she must’ve heard at least some portion of the fears you were projecting.

            “If you mean the noise that was stewing inside your head, then yes. I’ll have you know you interrupted my weekly blaspheming time with that. Honestly, it’s a wonder the fools you drag around aren’t here to complain about how loud you were being.”

            You’re confused by her need to keep to a schedule, as there seems to be little else keeping her attention, other than your family’s need for her guidance.

            “It was a compromise I made with the others,” she sighs, tossing her head back and waving her hand with a dramatic flourish. “Apparently they all got their anger out of their systems long ago and find my raving ‘concentration breaking,’ as if they have anything other to concentrate on than their misery. I agreed to limit myself to a few hours of speaking my mind a week. The rest of the time I spend in boredom until you call upon me.”

            You rest your chin on the palm of your hand and show her soft smile. You appreciate her want for your company.

            “Do not presume too much,” Sandra scoffs as she always does when you show her affection. “You merely interrupt the tedium of eternity. Am I not allowed a small glimpse of random chance every now and then?”

            You think she is deserving of whatever she needs. Including her freedom.

            “So generous of you to believe so, my lovely Reader.” A sad smile crosses Sandra’s lips. “Were there anyone who could grant such a gift.”

            You offer to try squeezing the crystal harder to see if you can shatter it. A boisterous laugh erupts from the depths of Sandra’s soul in kind. It warms your heart to hear it.

            “Believe yourself stronger than the Scribes’ will, do you? You are more than welcome to try. We’ve been dropped off the side of a mountain before, so I doubt you would succeed, but it would be entertaining to ‘watch you strain against the glass,’ so to speak.”

            You think perhaps Jodariel would have a better time at it.

            “I think she would flatten us before we shatter—equally as entertaining, but perhaps not wise in the long haul.”

            While it worries you that Sandra constantly jokes in spite of her circumstance, you admit that you find it charming, in a way. You then notice her expression fall flat and remember that no matter how quietly you think it, when you’re linked to someone telepathically, they’re going to hear every word.

            The next few minutes pass in silence. A few seams begin to crack in the cloud coverage above, allowing for setting sunlight to peek through. You squint and raise a hand to shade your eyes as a mote of intense, magenta glare shines off a nearby crystal reef. There are so many things you want to think—to _say_ —but you do not know how to begin in a way that wouldn’t send Sandra away. Instead you focus on clearing your mind to relieve the awkward feeling that has occupied it.

            “It seems our purposes are coming to an end,” Sandra finally remarks, resting her head on her knuckles. “Soon there will be no one left that you can save and no one left for me to teach. All we’ll have is the eternity of waiting to do until nothingness claims us. Well, it’ll claim you, but with no one around, it may as well have claimed me as well.” She pauses. “A shame that I still held onto hope that the Scribes would show true mercy and end me before this came to pass. I guess they had me duped like all the rest.”

            You wring your hands anxiously. You know that purpose is what you make of it. But you also know that autonomy is required to make such choices. Sandra hasn’t had that in a long time.

            You feel a soft, yet sudden impact of force on your shoulder as Sandra’s reflection pats yours. “We do as much as we can until we lose our wills or the means to do so. There’s nothing more than anyone could ask of us.”

            Carelessly, you wonder which it was she lost first.

            “Beware the places you dare to tread, my lovely Reader,” she bites. “Your stomach may churn from what you learn.”

            You meant no disrespect. In fact, you feel calm knowing how much she cares, in spite of what she’s lost. You don’t mind that she’s unwilling to put her heart fully on display. What little she does is more than enough.

            “And with that,” Sandra huffs, “I’m going to get the last of my screaming out while I still can.” She stretches her hands out, flexing her palms back as if to warm herself up. “Please do not interrupt it a second time. I do not know if I’ll ever have the chance again.”

            You feel sorry that, of all people you want to help, you do not have the means of helping her.

            “Reader, please. Leave it be; let me have my solitude. It’s all I have left.”

            You also hope she knows she does not have to be alone. She does not have to cling to this emptiness that has been thrust upon her.

            “Reader,” she says, sternly this time. “Leave it be.”

            You rub your eyes and make a dejected noise somewhere between a growl and a huff. By the time your vision refocuses, Sandra’s reflection has vanished, as has the subtle pull of the connection to her. You pull out the beyonder crystal to stare at one last time. The sparkle has faded from it and the storm within has thickened immensely. While you should be disappointed to be left to your own thoughts, you are instead filled with a comforting warmth. In 837 years of entrapment, she has still not lost her cares. You admire her determination.

            You hope that you will find some semblance of that strength once the stars have gone out, and the last of your family has been sent home.

            A more selfish flame flitters through your heart as you’re about to tuck the prison away. You press the crystal against your chest for a moment and release a longing, muted sigh. You are glad to have heard her humming voice once before everything fell apart. Tariq and Celeste’s harmonies are hauntingly beautiful, but none of them catch your ear quite like Sandra’s.

            You try not to hurt knowing that your voice will never join hers.

            As the crystal tumbles out of your hand and back into your pocket, you feel the unquestionable sensation one does when you untwine your fingers from a partners, the tips refusing to part until the last possible moment. Sandra has never abandoned you. In this moment you swear to return her kindness and more.

            It’s the least you can do.

* * *

             On the day of the final Liberation Rite, the ride up mount Alodiel is a solemn one. You’ve managed thus far to send on everyone who wanted to return home. Only Sir Gilman, Volfred, Bertrude and Tariq remain to give you company in the Blackwagon, but they each prefer to contemplate the choice to come in silence. Bertrude does come around eventually and delivers you a soothing tea that eases the pain in your throat, which you are grateful for. She doesn’t say a word when she hands you the cup, but you can see the sadness in her eyes. Though she may not care to ever leave the Downside, her worries about another friend becoming lost to her echo strongly in your mind.

            Sometimes when your fellows pass you by, you hear them repeating the last words you thought-spoke when you gave your speech like a desperate prayer in their heads. “Mere distance cannot separate our spirits.” You meant every word that you said, but in the moment, you know it still hurts to be apart.

            It’s a struggle to keep hope going in spite of the coming end. That the Pyrehearts did not bother to show up for the Rite preceding this one was demoralizing. You didn’t see any of the wagons belonging to the triumvirates on the flight here. Everyone has given up but you and Oralech, who you know waits at the peak to crush you again and claim the freedom he rightfully deserves.

            You notice your hands are shaking so you set your tea down to keep it from spilling out. You can’t let any last second doubts hold you back. You know what you have to do.

            A faint glow catches your attention in the corner of your eye. You turn and see the beyonder crystal shining for the first time in weeks. You ponder for a moment about who it could be that Sandra is calling upon, as she’s tested everyone, before you feel a tug at the back of your mind. It seems it is your turn to be put through the ringer.

            You take a moment to center yourself and find your courage before approaching the crystal. Sandra made it very clear she did not want to talk to you again until she called upon you. You do your best to temper your expectations accordingly, though you find some amount solace in her want for your company. It’s been rather lonely without her.

            You lift the crystal off its place next to the Book of Rites and sit down next to your tea with it. You take one last sip of the warm liquid before closing your eyes, focusing on the crystal. You feel that momentary cold dissociation snap around you as the connection forms and the practice arena shapes out of green fog around you. Moments later, Sandra’s form coalesces before you with her back turned. When she does not acknowledge you, you approach out of concern.

            “That’s close enough, Reader,” she speaks before you can tap her shoulder to say hello. She turns around not quite to look at you. She rubs her wrist at her waist. Her brows are furrowed and her usual smirk is suffocated under the weight of her frown. The bright light of the green mist that wisps from her form is duller than usual.

            It’s unnerving that she appears troubled by something. Perhaps she told you to keep your distance because she knew you’d want to hug her.

            “Thank you for visiting on such short notice,” she begins. “I understand you have important matters to attend to.” She turns fully to face you and clasps her hands together. “So, let me be blunt. Please, listen for a moment, then.”

            You nod cordially. You’ve always had time to listen to her; you see no reason not to heed her words now.

            “I know this whole affair is coming to an end. All of it. I sense the binds that formed the Rites becoming weak. Which means… soon, you will not need me anymore. Not that you have needed me at any point, but still. My services will not be of any further use.”

            You do not believe that to be true, but she holds up a hand before you can take that thought anywhere.

            “I would love to tell you that this means I shall be free from my eternal prison,” she continues, adjusting the collar of the Rites garb her form is confined to. “For some of my Beyonders, it shall be a release. My accomplices are bound by weaker words than those which have bound me. They shall fade away, I think, and finally rest.”

            You need not your powers as a reader to tell that she won’t share their fate. The way she lingers on every word says enough. Through your shared connection she seems to sense your understanding.

            “Thus, I have a proposition for you.” She steps closer to you, reaching her hands out like she’s going to take yours, but hesitates to do so. “I do not know where you shall go from here, but… I ask you to take me there. Wherever it shall be.”

            You are stunned by what she asks. While she has always shown care for you and the others under her charming, smarmy exterior, she has never wanted for yours in return. It had always hurt to know how isolated she would act, seemingly without a care for herself. For her to reach out to you now, on the eve of the end of everything, fills you with such joy you’re surprised you don’t catch fire yourself.

            Sandra recedes slightly as she begins a long-winded, self-depreciating explanation of why she wants to come with you, all of which you do not hear in your stupor. Her diatribe ends with a sudden, surprised gasp as you wrap your arms around her, burying your face in the crook of her neck. It shames you to know that she believed you’d abandon her like all others had before you. Can she not see how she sparkles in your eye brighter than the stars above?

            She remains silent for a moment before returning the embrace by clinging to your shoulders. “I have no wish to see you gain in years,” she mutters, her sharp accent smooth in your ear, “to eventually decay, whilst I remain unchanging. But…” You feel her hands drag down your back as she releases you, her fingers glancing past yours as she closes herself off. “I should rather have more years whilst having contact. Even if those years are to be brief, they shall afford me many more in which I might think back upon our times.

             “I do not expect you to accommodate my needs, for I am well aware I have my limits in accommodating yours. That is to say…” She straightens up a bit. “I wish you to go forth, after this night, and live your life, however you see fit. For your own sake.” A smile brightens her face, the glow of the green wisps that frame it increasing. “May all this Rites business enrich your coming days somehow. And… in considering that life after this night… if you think that there may be a place in it for me, however small, then—”

            You interrupt her one last time by placing a hand on her shoulder. Your gaze flicks about as you try to muster up words of comfort for you to think-say, but nothing of worth comes. Instead, you slide your fingers up the back of her neck and into her hair. You lean forward and press your forehead against hers. You could not, and will not, leave her behind.

            The tips of Sandra’s fingers brush against your cheek longingly. You follow the caress of her palm, her thumb tracing along your lower lip. She releases the breath she was holding, a gentle cold washing over you.

            “Perhaps, at least, during our time together, I could lull you to sleep once in a while,” she quips, her smirk back where it belongs.

            You cannot help but chuckle, or, at least, you make a noise close enough to what someone who’s had their throat slashed can come to chuckling. You know from experience that her efforts would work flawlessly.

            Sandra dotingly adjusts the rumples in your garb, evening it out to appear more presentable, despite the fact that your physical self is not present in this place that you share. “Let us go, then, from this place,” she beckons. “Go and face your last remaining adversaries.” Her smirk widens devilishly. “May you crush them under heel and achieve the outcome which you seek. I believe you shall prevail.”

            With that her form vanishes, the arena dematerializing into nothingness. You’re back in the Blackwagon, alone in your corner,  in your own little room. And yet you do not feel as such staring at the beyonder crystal in your grasp. You set it snugly into your cloak’s inner pocket and pat it twice. You rise to your feet, a second flame now lit in your heart. You finish the last of your tea, which has gone cold in your absence, and go to find the others to prepare for the coming trial. You continue to feel the faint touch of your companion’s hand as you step on the field to face down Oralech for the last time.

            And when your adversary shows you mercy, and you step into the light to reclaim your home, she remains by your side.

* * *

             One afternoon, late into your years, you’re sailing the vast unexplored ocean beyond the borders of the Saharian Union and the Downside. The sun and moon as your guides, and the Blackwagon as your steed, you’re set upon a path you’ve revealed to no one but your eternal partner, who is currently musing about what the next part of the book you’re writing together shall entail.

            You’ve written a few books in the time that’s passed since your ascension, but the most recent three you believe will forever be the most important you could leave behind.

            The first you wrote as a chronicle detailing the exploits and merits of the Nightwings. You wrote this tome in secrecy as a gift for the one family you’ve ever known. They were rightfully heartbroken when you announced your intention to leave, likely never to return. You wish they could’ve come with you; you hope they found it in them to forgive you.

            You also made sure to detail the tragedy of Oralech and all Nightwings prior to yours. You refused to let history forget them a second time.

            The second is an account of the most recent formations of the many triumvirates of the Downside. You felt it necessary to give the exiles who had lost their chance at freedom a voice in the new Union.

            Surprisingly, Udmildhe was the easiest to talk too, having eased her fervor for destruction over the years, due in no small part to Bertrude’s meddling, and eventual kinship born first out of pity, then of sisterhood. Barker thought the effort was an arrogant attempt to ease your conscience, which you admitted was probably true, but he seemed eager enough to talk about all that he had seen. Manley was the hardest to write for, not because he still held a grudge, but because he would constantly change his story. You were very proud the day you got him to be honest with you. That was also the day he slapped you for accidentally ramming into his caravan with the Blackwagon that one time. You figure you probably deserved it.

            You never quite managed to get Pamitha’s estranged sister to sit down with you, but a few of the other harps filled in enough details to give you something to work with. You were pleasantly surprised when a letter came in one day from Tamitha containing a single line of text. “Tell her I forgive her.” You decided to write that at the very end of the essence’s section.

            Interestingly, you found Ignarius the day you decided to pay Volfred, Bertrude, and Oralech a visit. Apparently he’d been visiting them for monthly tea sessions to help him work through his resentment towards the Rites. They were quite shocked and worried to see you there, but you eventually managed to get them to calm down enough to speak about the years that had gone by.

            A few others had sadly passed beyond your reach by the time you came to the Downside. Dalbert had died not long after your ascension, leaving Almer to tell his tale. You were happy to learn that the boy, now grown, had continued his budding friendship with Shae through letters. While he was disappointed that you could not say hi to her for him, he was grateful to learn that she’d found happiness at long last with Jodariel and Pamitha watching over her. You spoke to a few of the Pyrehearts over the years, but when you asked after Sir Deluge, they would always change the subject. And you could never find any of the Accusers, Lendel having vanished in what some called a “desperately mad” search for another way to ascend.

            The last third of the book is dedicated to all of the exiles who never had the chance to compete in the Rites. You’d always admired how they’d found a different kind of enlightenment in banding together and starting anew. Truly they were not so different from your own family.

            It has always been your largest regret, not being able to give them their freedom. You try not to dwell on it as best you can.

            “You’re too kind to them,” Sandra had remarked at the time. “Not all of them are so deserving of pity as the fools who took you in.”

            Quietly you remind her that a good many of them had committed no crime at all. It was impossible to count how many had simply been born in the Downside, never to have the chance to escape. Not to mention the many who were worthy who simply perished in the Nightwings’ absence.

            “‘Tis true, I suppose,” she relents. “It’s not as though I ever had a point of contact with those who fell outside of the Nightwings’ domain.”

            And yet, you snicker, that did not keep her from running her mouth.

            “As if I’ve ever needed someone else’s permission to speak my mind,” she scoffs. Her smirk then splays wide. She drapes her arms over your shoulders to whisper in your ear. “Was my wit not instrumental in shaping your fools into the icons of ascension they became?”

            You concede her point with a kiss. She flashes you a grin before dissipating into a fine, green mist. The feeling of her holding your hand remains even as you sleep for the night.

            The final book, which you have yet to finish, is entitled _Sandra and I_. It’s an exhaustive, personal account of your journey together, spurred on by Sandra’s disdain for how little people would say about the two of you in the Union. It’s been an interesting challenge to put down onto paper, writing chunks at a time out of necessity, as you have not lived out your entire life together yet.

            You’ve deliberately written these stories in a tome larger than all the rest to give the two of you ample room to embellish on the details. Though you’ve never quite found the courage to jot down the more lascivious portions of your relationship, despite how hilarious your partner thinks it would be if they too were immortalized. Particularly she wants you to write about that night you spent together in the high library. You feel scandalized just thinking about it.

            Even so, you’re coming to the last few pages of space to write in. All you have left to do is find the right words to properly send off your love for her.

            It’s been proving a difficult process. You don’t want to say goodbye.

            You feel a gust of wind _thwap_ at the back of your head. While the sensation did not hurt, you still rub the spot anxiously. You suppose she has a point. This was the inevitable end to your time together.

            You feel the warmth of her arms slip around you. It’s not as if this is easy for her either.

            You sniffle and wipe away a tear on your cheek before it can stain the papers in your lap. A weary creak from the Blackwagon’s boards tells you that you should let him and his drive imps rest. You chart a course for the first island you see and set up camp for the night. It’s been a long trip so you do not fault his need to stop and catch his breath, so to speak. The vehicle shudders as it transforms into its campsite form. You can tell he misses the laughter of his older sister on nights like these. You reassure him that he’ll see her again one day soon.

            You get a fire going and cook up a couple fish that you’d caught earlier in the day. They’re a little plain for your liking, as you’ve run out of spices, but they make a far better meal than some of the grub you had to scrounge up during your time in exile.

            You remember the first meal you had after Hedwyn had been returned to the Commonwealth. Shae had eagerly volunteered to cook, using a series of ingredients that no one in the group could identify, but looked edible enough to use. The result was surprisingly savory—so much so that even Jodariel voiced her approval. The next morning, however, those of you most akin to humanity woke up with blue skin.

            Interestingly, Pamitha was affected as well, but in different manner. The color of her wings and her hair had been swapped. She asked Jodariel to pluck a few of her feathers out to see what would happen. You believe at least one of them wound up fastened to the ring of the Captain’s cloak in the end.

            ‘Twas hilarious, in hindsight, but at the time you were all quite freaked out.

            You later learned when the story came up in Bertrude’s company that one of the ingredients was something that only Sir Gilman’s kind could handle. It was mortifying to hear her surprise that you’d all survived the ordeal. She asked Shae to show her where she’d foraged them from. She was eager to replicate and improve upon the results.

            A month of experimentation later resulted in a refined version of the same meal without the toxic side effects. Apparently one of the ingredients could be used as a counter-agent for the portion only wyrms could eat. The discovery would soon make culinary headlines across the Downside, opening up a large number of possibilities for both edible and delicious meals one could put together.

            It still made harps’ colors invert, but you take what you can get when it comes to the Downside.

            You pull your knees close to your chest. You wish you could see your family one last time before you move on.

            “I miss them too,” Sandra confides, appearing at your side. “Fools though they were, they were my— _our_ —fools. They didn’t solely base their lives around the freedom they sought, like their predecessors had. They found a way to live their own way, in spite of it all.”

            She pauses to lean her head against your shoulder. “I think I’ll always regret that I never told them how much I admired their courage. As much as you are my love, I think I loved them too. They were my purpose; they were… family.”

            You lean your head against hers, taking one of her hands to rub with your thumb. You know they appreciated her guidance during your time together. That they speak of her with both reverence and fear back in the Union is proof enough.

            Sandra seems to take some comfort in that, giving you a low, hearty laugh.

            Eventually you decide to turn in for the night. You take a couple of poles out from the Blackwagon and set up a hammock under its extended awning. You toss a couple more pieces of drift wood onto the campfire to sustain it before hopping up and settling in. You place a hand on the beyonder crystal in your pocket and close your eyes. There’s that familiar, cool disassociating feeling as you enter your love’s realm.

            The first thing you see is Sandra already lying next to you, face to face. Your surroundings have remained the same—a handy benefit of your mastery over your powers and the telepathic connection you share—though wisps of green fire trail from the ground. Despite this, your vision only goes so far, the sand and the sea blending together into a blurry, water-color dreamscape. It hardly matters, though. There’s only one thing—one _person_ —you want to be looking at right now.

            She leans into your hand as you cup her cheek and turn her head up a bit. The shine of her own wisps glint brilliantly off her dimples, the patterning under her eyes glittering like the stars. While she doesn’t age, she’s developed a few wrinkles over the years from laughter and sympathy. Even so, they only serve to further bring out the beauty in her you’ve always seen.

            You kiss them each individually and she does the same to yours. Once, long ago, she tried to kiss every one of your freckles. However, as she is blind, and you have never truly counted them, she could never find them all.

            That didn’t keep her from trying.

            She reaches behind her head and pulls her hair tie loose, her hair gently floating into place. You pull a few errant strands behind her ear. She smiles, laying one hand on your waist, the other on your chest. You’ve played out this dance so many times before, yet it never ceases to warm your heart.

            Her lips part like she’s about to speak, but she doesn’t make a sound. Truthfully, there’s little more for the two of you to say. You’ve lived a full life together. You wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

            She snuggles in close and you embrace her. You stay like this until you finally wake with the rising sun.

            You have so little time left to spend like this. You plan to take advantage of as much of it as you can.

            Dawn brings with it the inspiration for your conclusion. You spend the next several days at sea writing down your shared thoughts, taking breaks only to stretch or eat, or to have an existential crisis over the wording of a single sentence. You do find some time to sleep, usually spent with your head using the book as a pillow, much to Sandra’s amusement. Once the final letter has been inked, you turn to one of the earliest pages, which you left blank to leave room for a dedication. It does not take the two of you long to come up with what to say.

            _To us, and the little moments between._

            “It’s done then,” Sandra declares, patting you on your shoulder. “An epitaph to all we were. I’m proud to have written it with you.”

            You close the tome and set it down on the table you sit at. A part of you wishes that there was still time to edit it, like the other books you’d published, but find it in you to resist the urge. You’re no stranger to the unfiltered truth, as you included much of it in your last two works. However, something about the personal nature of your bond to your partner originally made it difficult to include it in this tome. Fortunately, Sandra managed to convince you of the worth of the task, and you left everything in.

            Save for that night in the high library, of course.

            You place a pouch containing all of the coin you have left next to the book, earning the attention of the Blackwagon’s drive imps. You ask them to deliver it to Volfred on their journey back to the Saharian Union for publishing. Based on their excited chirping, you gather that they have agreed to your request.

            You hope your former conspirator can forgive all of the crossed-out lines when he lays eyes on it.

            Feeling the need to stretch, you stand up and walk over to one of the windows. It’s a lovely day out. The Blackwagon rocks gently on the calm sea. A few clouds drift lazily across the sky, the sun shining bright. You decide then to take the rest of the day to relax and let all your worries fall to the wayside.

            Sandra’s reflection shimmers into view in the window, her head resting on your shoulder. She appears receptive to the idea of doing nothing but exist in each other’s company. Perhaps you can find a way to set up your hammock outside so you can watch the sun slowly set, chatting idly all the way. The Blackwagon seems to groan in response to the very thought, earning a chuckle out of you both. Perhaps you’ll just lay on the floor then and stare at the ceiling. At least until you can no longer resist the urge to join together her prison.

            That’s when the storm hit.

            In a flash of thunder and lightning, the Blackwagon violently shudders, dipping to one side. You nearly lose your footing, barely managing to grab the nearest shelf to stop yourself from tumbling over. Sandra yelps as the beyonder crystal flings out of your cloak pocket, which tore from the force of the fall, and skitters across the floor before coming to a stop next to the far door.

            The Blackwagon lurches again as a strong wave collides with it, knocking the door open, and sending you onto your back. You feel sharp pain as the crystal smacks into your side and you double over in a way that conveniently keeps it from rolling away again.

            “Where did this come from?” Sandra shouts, her voice distant in your haze. You shake your head and push yourself up. You nab her prison and tuck it under your arm as you stumble back over to the window you were looking through.

            The view outside is drastically changed from moments before. The sea violently churns, sprays of cold impacting with enough force to crack the glass. The drive imps sqwak hurried orders to maintain control of the Blackwagon, which creaks and moans against the elements. You see flakes of wood begin to flake off of the vehicle, disintegrating in the wind.

            “You better not lose me in that!” Sandra warns, a panic in her voice that you’ve never heard before. “I’ve spent too long in this damnable thing to be lost at the bottom of an ocean _again._ ”

            You assure her that if she sinks into the drink, then so will you have.

            “That’s not helping!”

            You acknowledge her point and buckle down in the far corner. The drive imps do the same, burrowing together as a pack in a single nest.

            The wood of the Blackwagon screeches agonizingly as the roof begins to peel away like paper. Through the opening you catch a glimpse of the sky. You are horrified to realize you’re inside of a tornado.

            You clutch the beyonder crystal tight at your chest. You feel Sandra’s hold around you in turn. You hope your journey wasn’t all for nothing. To end here would be a grave disservice to your bond.

            And then, as soon as it began, the storm recedes.

            The roof of the Blackwagon slams back down with a jolt, causing you to jump. You keep your eyes closed as your steed slowly resumes its gentle rocking. You begin to relax as you realize that the wind no longer screams around you. You don’t quite loosen your grip on the crystal just yet, just in case the worst is not yet over.

            A few of the drive imps join you as you peek your head through one of the doors. Sure enough, the storm has subsided, and you all collectively exhale in relief. Then you nearly stumble over as the Blackwagon lurches to a stop. You take another look and realize that you’ve beached on an island you didn’t know was there. An island that has a tall, moss-covered, grey tower standing at its center.

            A tower that looks like someone cleaved a sword through it.

            “Well that sounds ominous,” Sandra remarks. “I assume this means you’re going to explore it?”

            You shrug. Would you be yourself if you didn’t?

            She doesn’t dignify the question with a response.

            You give the Blackwagon a gentle pat to see how he’s doing. The engines sputter a moment, informing you that he is battered, but alive. You bid him to rest while you go find out where you landed. You also duck into the pantry and put out a bowl of snacks for the drive imps, who devour them mercilessly.

            You pick up your and Sandra’s book and place it on the shelf where your Book of Rites used to stand. You then find one of the poles for your hammock to use as a walking stick and the satchel you used to carry Sandra in on your first venture together.

            “Would that I could carry myself, my love,” Sandra smirks. “I would’ve left you long ago.”

            You place your hands over your heart and sigh dramatically, feigning hurt. You thought she’d liked you being her “personal Blackwagon,” as she’d called it.

            You then point out that even if she could carry herself, she would still need you, or someone else, to be her eyes.

            “Details.” You smile as you feel the ghostly imprint of her lips on your cheek. “Shall we then?”

            You hop over the side of the Blackwagon and land in the sand. You make the equivalent of a groan as your knees creak from the impact. You may be getting a little too old for this.

            “Come on, beloved,” your partner laughs. “Already giving up? Where’s your sense of adventure, mm?”

            You ask if she wants you to leave her in the Blackwagon.

            “In that sink-trap?” You can almost feel her shudder from inside the satchel. “No, I’m fine, thank you. If you so desire, I will keep my charming nature on hold for now.”

            You know for a fact that should were the opportunity to snark arise, she would not be able to contain herself.

            “You know me so well,” she hums.

            Shifting your weight onto the walking stick, you push yourself up and begin to walk towards the tower. It’s a massive thing, made of who knows how many stone bricks. Other than a few trees that surround it, it appears to be the only thing on the island. You wonder who could’ve built it. Given the small size of the island, it must’ve taken an extraordinary effort to construct. By the weathering of the stone, it’s also very old—old enough that you do not see any trace of the other half of the tower anywhere, not even in the water.

            As you near the base, you notice a white, wooden door amidst the stonework. It’s unusually plain in design, the only thing standout about it being its black handle. You also notice that, unlike the rest of the tower, no moss grows here. You see no keyhole above the handle, so you assume that you can open it. You are annoyed that it doesn’t budge when you try.

            You circle around the tower a couple times in search of a different way in. Oddly, all of the surviving stone work is perfectly even, meaning there are no hand holds to climb with. There are no vines you can use either, as the moss appears to be largely surface level, and not grown into the structure of the tower itself. Not even the trees are tall enough to use as a bridge to go in through the top.

            Just as you’re about to give up and return to the Blackwagon to ponder where the stars might direct you next, you notice something out of place about the door. There appears to be something etched faintly into the wood at eye-level. You recognize what it is once you trace your finger along the carvings.

            It is the sigil you would see hanging in the sky during the Rites of long ago. This tower belongs to the Eight Scribes.

            “Oh,” you hear from behind you. You turn around and see Sandra standing a few feet away. Her arms are crossed across her chest. Her head is turned away as if she cannot bear to look at you, despite her lack of sight.

            “This is it, isn’t it?” She asks, already knowing the answer. Indeed, this does appear to be the place that was calling to you. The capstone of the journey you began when the stars went out.

            This is the end of your time together.

            “Does it have to be?” Sandra’s voice quickens. She reaches out and takes your hands. “Does this have to happen now? We know where this is now, so we can always come back later.”

            In the corner of your eye you begin to notice wisps of green flame emerge from the ground. You hadn’t even noticed her pull you into her prison. Her panic tugs at your heart stronger here. You feel woozy, like time is slipping you by. You need to help her stay calm—

            “Why should I be calm?” She exclaims. “You seem so dead set on following the Scribe’s blasted will. Did you forget that they abandoned everyone? Did you forget that they abandoned me? Would you let them make you leave me behind as well?”

            You know she knows that would never happen. You would never leave her if you had a choice.

            “Do I? Is that not what’s happening now? And why do you not have a choice? Are you not one of the few who were instrumental in subverting their will and destroying all that they built? Was that all a lie?”

            She lets go of you and takes a step back. A plume of green fire seeps out of her garb, forming a sort of barrier between the two of you.

            “I suppose I should not be surprised,” she scowls, her voice gone cold. “I was always doomed to be alone. You were never going to change that. I thought you could give me some small diversion from my fate, but I guess I was wrong.”

            You do not know what to say. Her words hurt beyond measure. And yet there is a certain truth to them. You are leaving her behind. You did not choose this path, but it was always going to be tread.

            Maybe you were fooling yourself, thinking you could bring her eternal happiness.

            She grabs you by the edges of your cloak. “Can… can we not delay this? By a month, a week---even just a couple days? I don’t… I can’t—”

            She stops short when she feels your tears splash against her hands. It’s clear to you now that you should’ve told her the real reason why you set upon this journey. You’d hoped to spare her any hurt by keeping quiet, but in reality, you were just trying to spare yourself the pain of hearing it. You owe her more than that.

            You try to explain as best you can.

            You had always known it would turn out this way. The moment the last Liberation Rite ended, you began to feel the pull to this spot. It was faint at first, but as time passed, it grew in strength. You could ignore it no longer the day you published the book about the Nightwings. It’s the whole reason you decided to go see the world and write the last two. It’s why you spent so much time with her.

            You cup her cheeks and press your forehead against hers. Every second you spent with her was the delaying action. All of those years you spent chatting away in the Blackwagon was all the time you could spare. All you were waiting for was the random chance that you would stumble upon where you needed to go. Everything else was to stall for time.

            You are dying.

            “Oh.”

            A moment of silence passes between you before she embraces you. She doesn’t say a word as you sob into her shoulder.

            Eventually you run out of energy to cry and you break the embrace. She gently wipes away the stains of sorrow from your cheeks. When you open your eyes, you see gouts of green fire streaming down from hers.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            You weren’t ready to say goodbye.

            “Is... is it a sickness? Is it something that can be cured?”

            You help her brush the flames from her face. You could not say for certain. You simply feel like your time has come.

            “So you’ve been fading this entire time,” she sniffles, “and yet you spent all that you had with me?”

            In the event that you never learned how to free her from her torment, you wanted to leave her enough memories for her to fall back upon when you passed. You’d promised as such the night of the final Liberation Rite.

            “Well,” she smiles softly, “you certainly kept it.” The fires spread about her form slowly diminish until all that remains are the wisps that puff out of her collar. She rubs her nose and exhales a defeated huff. She looks as exhausted as you feel.

            “Stars, I feel like an asshole. I—”

            You place a finger over her lips. You do not need her to apologize. You should’ve been honest with her. She is your partner. She deserved better.

            She takes your hand and holds it in her lap. You sit there a while in silence. Normally you would give each other some space after an argument like that, but there isn’t the time to spare.

            “There’s no stopping this, is there.” It isn’t a question. It’s a resignation.

            You shake your head. You have not the strength to look for a way out.

            Though, now that it’s been brought up, you’re open to suggestions.

            Sandra smirks like she does when she’s trying to ease her conscience with humor. “You could always resurrect Soliam Murr so you can kill him a second time. Perhaps the Scribes would deign to trap you in here with me then.”

            You give her a wry, noiseless chuckle. You admit that you did once try to find a necromancer for that very task. However, there were two obstacles that prevented your search. One, most of the Scribes’ magics had vanished when the stars went out, meaning there was no one with the power to raise the dead. Not to mention that all records of necromancy are found solely in myth rather than historical accounts. Secondly, Soliam Murr left with the rest of the Scribes when the stars went out. There would be no soul to put in his body, assuming you ever found it.

            “I love that you took my suggestion seriously,” she grins.

            If there was a way to put you there, you don’t think you would mind it if you had to be stuck in the beyonder crystal for eternity with her. Your only worry is that you would grow distant like she did with her accomplices over the years and become isolated from each other. The last thing you want is to be the sole cause of her return to torment.

            “I don’t think I could ever tire of you,” she reassures you. “You provide a welcome counterpoint to my way of thinking. My accomplices and I didn’t get along because they did not appreciate that I slew the Emperor—the act that is the very reason for our torment. We wouldn’t have that problem. Unless…”

            She pushes you onto your back with one hand and straddles your hips, lording over you. “Unless there’s something else you haven’t told me.”

            You give her a well meaning shrug. While you are almost positively certain you have never been directly responsible for someone’s death, you did topple a long standing, horribly corrupt government once. Who knows? Perhaps, in another life, you’ll find the courage to be purposefully rude to someone once without feeling too ashamed of yourself.

            “That’s not exactly what I meant, but you? Be rude?” Your partner scoffs haughtily. “I do not know of any realm where you could be such a thing. Accidently inconsiderate, sure, but purposefully mean? I’m likelier to escape this prison than that ever coming to pass.”

            You raise your hands apologetically for missing her point. There is nothing else that you have hidden away. You’ve been earnest about everything you’ve done together. Truly you would not have traded it for anything.

            She lowers herself on top of you, using your chest like a pillow. “Were you to have another chance at life…” she ponders, “and were we to cross paths again… would you do this all again? Not keep me out of the loop on something—I’d assume you’d have learned by then. I mean… all that we’ve been through. Would you take another pass at it?”

            You wrap an arm around her waist and begin stroking her hair. Were you to have the sort of luck to be with her again, you’d accept its blessing wholeheartedly. Perhaps you would not do all the same things again; you hope that you’d have the freedom to act on all that you had missed out on being separated as you are. But if you did have to walk this path a second time, there would be no hesitation in your mind.

            You would not leave her behind.

            Sandra huddles in close and breathes in your soul.

            “I’ll miss you.”

            You’ll miss her too. You always do when you’re apart.

            “I love you.”

            You love her too. There are a million more elegant ways to phrase it, but the truth is the truth. Your heart is hers, never to be rescinded.

            You stay there together on sand for a while longer. Even with the end in sight, you’re still going to take all the time you can.

            The next time you open your eyes, the sun has nearly passed beyond the horizon. You hardly noticed that you’d been released from Sandra’s realm. You glance down at your beloved, who still rests atop you. You no longer feel her presence as strongly as you do while fully linked, but still you can feel her breathe. You are glad that you got to spend a little while longer. It’s as if the Scribes wanted to give you the time you needed to find closure.

            And then the sky goes dark.

            You hear something click behind you, followed by the creaking of wood. You twist your head and see that the tower door is ajar. The symbol carved into the wood glows like it did during the Rites. You half expect the Archjustice’s voice the buzz in your ear, but it never comes.

            “It’s time, isn’t it.”

            You see Sandra already standing above you. She’s turned towards the tower, but not quite facing it. You sit up and nod solemnly.

            The end is here.

            “Then we face it together.”

            Sandra extends a hand out to you as if she expects you to take it. You hesitate for a moment before clasping your hand around her wrist. While she does not quite pull you to your feet, as she is not currently corporeal, you are suddenly filled with a surge of energy and rise as if she had helped you. You grab your walking stick and secure the strap on your satchel.

            Before you head inside, however, there is one last thing you must do.

            You walk back down the beach and head over to the Blackwagon. Perched on the banister of the bow are the vehicles drive imps. You extend a hand towards them to pat their heads and bid them farewell. Surprisingly, they intercept the motion, each of them pressing their foreheads against your palm before waddling back inside. You cannot help but smile as you watch them go. Perhaps they know what’s about to happen.

            You rub the Blackwagon fondly and wish him a safe journey home. You ask that he tell Shae when he sees her that your journey is done and that you miss your family very much. His engine sputters to life seemingly in acknowledgement. You hope that he’ll make it back to the Saharian Union. He’d taken quite a beating during that freak storm.

            You wave him farewell and return to the tower door. You pause for a moment at the threshold as the sheer weight of what you’re about to do threatens to flatten you. “I’m with you,” Sandra whispers from the beyonder crystal.

            You step through the threshold.

            You immediately step back out as you do a double take of what you just saw. On the outside, the tower is a ruin. The inside is a completely different story. The floor is made of pristine, checkered marble. A staircase lines the room, spiraling up to a ceiling that you cannot see.

            It seems you’ve been given one final challenge. You are of the mind to complete it.

            It’s a long journey up. Not all of the steps are in as good a condition as the ones you first saw at the bottom. A couple times you have to sidle along the wall to cross gaps where there are no stairs at all. You try to jump one of these gaps, but Sandra rightfully convinces you out of the attempt.

            On one occasion do steps that you believed were safe give out from under you. Luckily you fall forward instead of backwards, so you do not fall and perish prematurely. Unfortunately, you lose your grip on your walking stick, which you hear clatter from wall to wall as it vanishes from your sight.

            Sandra’s form blinks into existence before you, bracing against you as you fall. “Come on, old girl,” she grimaces, straining against your weight even though she’s technically not there to hold you up. “Don’t let me down now.” Using her will as a crutch, you pull yourself to your feet and trudge onwards. You wish the Scribes had designed this place with hand railings in mind. A few steps later, you find one that you can use.

            You’re beginning to feel like someone other than your partner is watching out for you.

            Every now and then there is a window for you to look out through. The first you come across you use to take a peek at the island below. You see the Blackwagon on the sea slowly chugging along. A window later, your steed has vanished entirely. After the third, you accept that there’s no turning back and you start to ignore them.

            More than once do you have to stop and catch your breath. You try to struggle through your exhaustion, but to no avail. Eventually you heed Sandra’s advice to sleep. She promises to wake you if the stairs suddenly become unreliable.

            You’re very glad to have her with you. You’re not sure if you’d ever reach the top were she not there to support you.

            After an indescribable amount of time, you begin to hear the faint call of music ahead. As you come closer to the source, you realize you’ve heard this sound before, though not the song. It’s a hauntingly beautiful harmony sung above a lute and a mandolin. You had not expected to hear such a thing ever again, but ultimately you are not surprised that this is happening.

            As you finally come to the top of the tower, you see none other than Tariq and Celeste playing their trademark instruments. You peek over the side of the tower as you wait for them to finish. Your stomach drops when you see you are far above the clouds.

            You think if you were to fling Sandra with all your might, she mayhaps indeed reach the sun and feel the heat at last. Despite the temptation, you would prefer to keep her nearby until you can no longer be near.

            The bardic pair stand once they’ve finished and turn to face you. Celeste’s golden glare pierces through you like she’s reading the very quality of your soul. It reminds you of the strange sensation you experienced the first time you met at the Scribesgate. Tariq’s gaze is a bit gentler, as he already knows you extensively.

            “So, you’ve come at last,” Celeste finally speaks, bowing her head courteously. “Welcome, Reader.”

            “It is good to see you again, friend,” Tariq tips his hat, not quite smiling, but not frowning either.

            You nod at each of them. When they do not say anything else, you grip the strap of your satchel nervously. You think you have some idea of why you were brought here, but you cannot know for certain until told.

            “Your thoughts are known to us,” the golden bard declares. “Please, speak them freely.”

            You hesitate for a moment. You feel Sandra’s presence at your back and you find the will to speak. You believe that the Scribes have a new purpose for you. A purpose that requires that you leave the mortal realm.

            “No,” the silver bard chuckles, “they moved on from this realm the night the Rites came to an end. They recognized that their methodology had been twisted by time and made to stray from its path. You are here because _we_ called you here.”

            You furrow your brows in contemplation. Tariq hadn’t asked much of you in the Rites, other than you see them to completion. You hardly know Celeste well enough to wonder what it she wants of you. But you didn’t come all this way simply to wonder. You are interested in hearing what they have to say.

            “What we have is an offer,” Celeste posits. “Throughout the Rites we observed you make numerous decisions that would affect the lives of those around you in unfathomable ways. We could not say if what you chose is right, but you had the will to choose. Such strength has not been seen since the days of the Titans.”

            “We wish to gift you the chance to pick up where the Scribes left off,” Tariq continues. “We would grant you the means to watch over all that you have helped to create and ensure that it does not fall in the same way that their dreams did.”

            Celeste again. “We do not grant this easily. Nor are you obligated to accept. As our last act in this realm, we thought it necessary to give you the opportunity to choose one last time.”

            This is a lot to take in. You put a lot of work towards shaping your home into what it is today. In searching for your end, you’d always felt like you had done it a disservice. You were not the only person who built it, and you certainly left things in capable hands, but you still believe you could do something more. Perhaps if you kept an eye on things from a distance, letting it shape from the foundations you helped set on its own, you could be satisfied.

            Though then again, that’s what the Scribes chose. It took a long time for the Commonwealth to fall, but fall it did. Would your solitary watch do anything to keep yours from meeting the same fate?

            “We could not say for certain,” Tariq admits, his head hanging low. “Ours are not the hands that guide the world. We were given credence only to maintain it. Now that it has changed, we could not guess where it would go.”

            “Nothing is eternal, Reader,” Celeste bridges. “All things must change, even ourselves. The best we can do is find closure before the dawn. I believe this is a lesson you learned well on your travels.”

            You suppose there is truth to what she says. You did all you could to help your family resolve its problems before sending them on. The books you wrote about the Nightwings and the exiles were for the same purpose.

            And yet you’d accomplished all of those things in the company of others. How could you possibly earn closure all by your lonesome?

            The golden bard shakes her head. “Sad to say, we have neither the time, nor the power, to offer the same chance to your family. We feel the call to return home. We only delay because we feel that we owe you as much.”

            You are grateful for the offer, and the kindness that motivates it, but you have seen what an eternity of solitude can do to someone. You do not think your partner would be pleased with you if you subjected yourself to the same fate.

            Although, maybe…

            You wonder if you might request something of them.

            The bards exchange interested glanced with one another. “There is little more we can give other than that which we have already offered,” Tariq speaks, “but, please. Ask away.”

            You reach into your satchel and pull out the beyonder crystal, which sparkles faintly in your grasp. You ask if Sandra, your love, and your partner, might be released from her prison so she could join you.

            The storm that swirls eternally within the crystal freezes in place as if Sandra has turned to look at you. Tariq blinks twice and has to cover his mouth to keep himself from snickering. Celeste gives him _the_ coldest side-eye you’ve ever bared witness to.

            “You lied to me,” she snarls.

            You pull the crystal close to your chest. You worry that you should not have revealed that you had it.

            “It was part of our duties to keep track of Sandra and her accomplices,” Tariq explains once he’s stifled his laughter. “When you took the crystal, I may have told Celeste that I’d lost it at sea. Again.”

            You’d always wondered how that happened. More importantly, if it was their job to watch her, then did that mean they know the words that bound her?

            Celeste puts her head in her hand and releases a long, exasperated sigh, as if she’s had this exact conversation before, and has run out of patience with it. You gulp as you feel her eyes fall upon you between her fingers.

            “You believe she is worthy of freedom?” She questions. “You are aware of the disaster she caused?”

            You nod affirmatively. Whatever her crimes, you believe her to be as deserving of the chance for forgiveness as the rest of your family was. It was your job to make that decision during the Rites. Over the course of your time together, you have grown fond of her. She has proved to be a valuable companion, giving you the will to carry on when you cannot summon it yourself. You could not have asked for a better partner.

            Besides, it’s as she said. All things must change. You know for a fact that Sandra is a fine example of that.

            The golden bard stares at her hand for a moment. Her face is unreadable; you have no idea what’s going through her head. You give Tariq a nervous glance and he raises a brow at you. You get the feeling that not many have had the courage to twist Celeste’s words back at her like that.

            Celeste shakes her head. You swear that you hear her mutter _“I can’t believe I’m doing this”_ under her breath. She then extends her hand out to you.

            “Give it here,” she beckons. You hesitate for a moment before you oblige. As you drop the cage into her care, you feel Sandra’s hands slip from yours. You rub your arm nervously as you step back. You really hope you have not misplaced your trust in them.

            “Come forth, wraith.”

            A trail of green smoke pours out from the crystal, pooling on the ground. It swirls for a moment before rising up and coalescing into the flame-wreathed form of your lover. While you cannot see her face from where you stand, you can feel the fear radiating off of her. You hope she knows that you’re still with her. Should they deny your request, you would refuse their offer. You value her company over anything they could ever give.

            Celeste scrutinizes Sandra in silence. She walks a slow circle around her, taking in every detail. Each footstep echoes loudly in your mind. You hadn’t noticed before that there is no wind up here. If you were to fall over the edge of the tower, you do not know how long it would be until you hit the ground.

            You tighten your grip on your arm and steady your breathing. It will do you no good to start panicking now.

            The golden bard stops in front of Sandra and gives her a hard stare. Quickly you ask that, should they not release her, that they would restore her sight to her instead. Celeste holds up a hand to keep you from stuttering. She then extends the crystal out to one side.

            “Tariq.”

            The silver bard pushes himself to his feet and walks over to her. He places a hand on the crystal and it begins to glow. They then both place their other hands on either side of Sandra’s face. Your partner gasps as the green flames that drift from her intensify, radiating with unbearable heat.

            And then, the bards begin to sing. You grip the strap of your satchel tightly again. You wish that there was someone left to pray to in order to ensure that this works.

            It’s a mournful melody that tugs as your heart, despite being in a language you do not understand. As the harmonies intermix, embers of silver and gold spark out of the fires. You then notice the crystal begin to disintegrate, the remains swirling around your partner before drifting off into the distance. Over time, the flames diminish until they dissipate entirely, as does the glow of her garb. By the time the song comes to a close, her form has solidified.

            A tear streaks down your cheek. She’s finally free. You managed to keep your promise after all.

            The bards let go of her and take a step back. Slowly she looks around the area; you cannot imagine what it would feel like to go so long without sight, only to have it returned to a view such as this. She turns around to stare at you, her mouth agape in shock.

            While her eyes are now open, you are a little concerned to see small, green flames burning in the sockets in the place of actual eyes. Still, they are quite beautiful to behold.

            She extends her hands out to you and takes a few steps forward. Almost immediately, she collapses to her knees. You surge forward to catch her, much like she did on the stairs below. She’s heavier than you expect, but you brace her all the same. She feels—she _is_ really here. You can hardly contain your excitement.

            So you don’t.

            After a while, she pats your back, asking that you relax your embrace. She looks up at you, green tears streaming out of her eyes. She reaches up for your face, but stops short of touching it. She’s still wearing gloves.

            “Mind helping me with these?” She asks shakily, turning her palms up. “It seems that, in my confinement, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to properly exist.”

            You kindly oblige, removing the gloves with gentle care. Her hands explore every inch of your body—the parts that would be decent to caress in the company of others, anyways. They then settle on either side of your face. They’re calloused and firm from what must’ve been decades of training as an assassin, yet her touch is careful and soft.

            It does not take her long to relearn what she’d lost, it seems.

            “You are everything I imagined, and so much more,” she breathes, barely containing her tears. “Thank you for this. I…”

            You dig two fingers under her headband and pull it off, casting it aside. You then slip your hand behind her neck and pull her close, pressing your forehead against hers. There’s not enough time left to say everything racing through your mind. You hope that a single kiss is enough to give even the briefest of summaries.

            It turns out to be the best one you ever share.

            “The terms of your imprisonment,” Celeste interrupts with a surprisingly embarrassed cough, “dictated that you would only be released if you ever forgave yourself for the murder of the Emperor. The Scribes could never grant such a thing to you, so they hoped that you would learn something of it by training their favorites in the Rites. I think it might have saddened them to leave without that coming to pass.”

            “I’m not sorry for doing my job,” Sandra bites. “But… I am sorry for dooming my sisters to share my fate.”

            “I know, which is why it’s a good thing there’s no one around to see this happening. Knowing your bond, we… _I_ could not leave you trapped in that _thing._ ” She turns to Tariq, who gives her a solemn nod. “We know something of what it means to be separated from the ones that you love. We would not inflict the same pain onto you. Not when you’ve suffered so much already.”

            Sandra does not respond to her. Instead she sighs and presses her face against your chest. “At least, in the end, it meant I got to meet you,” she says, her voice muffled by your clothing.

            You hug her tight. There’s nothing left to keep you apart. You can finally start your life together in earnest.

            “This may turn out to be yet another prison, you know. But I suppose if I was trapped in it with you, it wouldn’t be so bad.” She flashes you a cheeky grin. “I’ve got a few ideas we can play out to pass the time.”

            “Then you’ve made your decision?” Tariq asks, slinging his lute over his shoulder. Celeste does the same with her mandolin, joining by his side.

            You take Sandra in your arms and hoist her off her feet. You gaze into each other’s eyes for one final moment before turning to Tariq and Celeste.

            You’re ready.

            “Then let us go home.”

            The bards strum a chord and suddenly you are enveloped in a brilliant light of silver and gold. You begin to rise like you did once before during the last Liberation Rite. Only this time, it feels like you’re going somewhere greater.

            And as you feel your bodies begin to slip away, you pull each other close for one last kiss.

            The following night, the denizens of the Saharian Union and the Downside are treated with a vision of those who made their lives possible, though they would not know it for some time. A pair of stars emerge side by side in the empty, darkened sky, one red, and one green, shining brighter than the eight that preceded them. It would be a couple years until the myths surrounding their creation finally died down, thanks largely to Volfred’s publishing of your declaration of your love for each other, as well as an afterword written by your family that ensured you would never be forgotten.

            Any location where you can see the stars clearly quickly becomes a popular wedding spot. Those with a more romantic persuasion claim that you can see the faint outlines of the Reader and Sandra amidst an eternal embrace in the various smaller stars that soon fill the void around them.

            Sandra is thoroughly amused that at long last she got her wish, the more lascivious nature of your relationship immortalized in the sky for all to see.

            From your place beyond the sky you keep an ever vigilant watch over those who you sought to free and protect for the rest of eternity. Or, at least, until it becomes necessary for another, stronger willed group of folks to cast you down and build something even greater than you could.

            And then you are gifted with a pleasantly surprising twist of fate. Over the course of the next few years, nine more stars rise to join yours.

            You’ve been reunited with your family at last. Nothing will keep you apart this time.

            You are, forever more, bound together.

**Author's Note:**

> I played Pyre for the first time _maybe_ two weeks ago. The moment I came upon the scene where Sandra asks the Reader to take her with them, I knew I had to write something.
> 
> Also, second person is tricksy!
> 
> If you liked this, say something, will ya! And if ye didn't, then I invite you to do the same.


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